


Conversation

by NyxEtoile



Series: Complicated [4]
Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Romance, talking about feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 03:30:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NyxEtoile/pseuds/NyxEtoile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock doesn't know something he seeks a consult. Especially in matters of the heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conversation

The call had come early in the morning, just after dawn, and Captain Gregson had been far more vague then usual. Watson hadn’t appreciated the wake up at all, so Sherlock had agreed to buy her an overpriced latte with a criminal amount of caramel in it on the way to the crime scene.

She was holding the paper cup in both hands like it was the grail itself, taking little sips from it now and again. He knew better then to try and engage her before it was at least 1/3 gone. And for some reason, the very fact he knew that, the same as he knew her shoe size, current favorite song and how she took her tea, made him extremely happy. Less then a month after their first real kiss and he was catching himself having ridiculously sentimental thoughts. It was enough to drive a normal man to distraction, he should be coming out of his skin.

She made a quiet humming noise that indicated conversation might be acceptable. He sighed inwardly. Apparently, there was room in his attic for nattering after all.

The reached the policed tape and he held it for her as they beelined to Captain Gregson, huddled in a blue coat and looking dour. Sherlock scanned for a body but saw only a small girl, perched on the back of police cruiser, swimming in a NYPD jacket. “Captain?” was all he said.

“Hey. Thanks for coming so early. This one. . . well, it’s a little unusual.”

“Who’s the little girl?” Watson asked, looking over at her.

“Our victim,” Gregson said, sounding grim. “Garbage men found her huddled on the sidewalk this morning and called 911. No one can get her to talk. Female uniforms, detectives. I tried, showed her pictures of my girls, told her I was a dad. Nothing. None of the neighbors know her. She’s got some minor scrapes and bruises, nothing serious. Something happened, but we can’t figure out what. CPS is sending someone to get her, maybe they’ll have better luck. I thought, maybe, you could look around, do your thing, figure out what happened to strand her out here last night.”

“I-” Before he could get anymore out Watson shoved her coffee in his hands.

“Hold this,” she told him, before rummaging in his pockets.  
 “What on earth are you-”

“Aha!” She pulled out a long piece of twine he’d shoved in his pocket the night before, after using the rest to tie up some magazines. She walked to the little girl, tying the string into a loop. She hopped onto the cruiser and held the circle of string between her hands, hooked on her thumb and pinky fingers, a line going across each palm. “Hi,” she said quietly. “I’m Joan.”

With a few finger flicks she’d made a cat’s cradle in her hands. She held it out to the little girl and quietly walked her through how to play. After a brief hesitation the girl lifted her hands and followed Watson’s directions. “I’m Lily,” she whispered, staring at the pattern of string in her hands.

Gregson jerked to attention and dug his notebook out, jotting the name down.

And so they spent the next forty minutes, listening to Watson play string games with Lily and gently asking just the right questions to find out what had happened the night before.

“So when Mommy woke you up do you remember what time the clock said?”

“Had you seen your Daddy recently? Did he live with you?”

“Mommy had a bruise? Did she act scared?”

“Did Daddy say where you were going in the car?”

“After Mommy pushed you out of the car which way did they go?”

Very quickly they had enough information to put an APB out on the girl’s abusive father and abducted mother. Sherlock took a tour of the crime scene and was able to glean some practical information about the car, but for the most part it was Watson and the little girl.

A dour looking woman from CPS came and Bell held her off until they had the full story from Lily. When Watson had talked the girl through the entirety of the previous night she gestured for the CPS agent to come forward. She gave Lily the string they’d been playing with and handed her off to the other woman.

Gregson hung up from the call he was on. “Uniforms just pulled the guy’s car over. Found the mother in the trunk. Beat up but alive. She’s on her way to the hospital, they’ll bring the girl to her when she’s checked out.” Sherlock nodded, distracted, watching Watson talk to the CPS representative. Gregson followed his gaze and added, quietly, “I don’t know what she sees in you, but you don’t deserve her,” before walking away.

Couldn’t say he disagreed.

***

Sherlock stepped into the Captain’s favorite pub. It took only a moment to spot him at the bar and join him.

Gregson looked at him in surprise. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I was hoping to find you,” he replied, quietly.

He sighed. “And how did you know I was here?”

“You always come here after difficult cases. Ones that affect you personally. I imagined that as a man with two daughters this morning’s incident might be troubling. Even with the relatively happy ending.”

Gregson sipped his drink, whiskey by the look and good stuff by the smell. “Right. So, you’ve found me. What’s on your mind?”

Sherlock cleared his throat, looking down at his clasped hands on the shiny bartop. “Your comment, earlier. Regarding Watson and myself.”

Gregson sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Look, Holmes I know-”

“You were right,” he said quietly. “I don’t deserve her. And I do question what she sees in me.”

Gregson turned and looked at him. “You two. . . you’ve both been very adamant that there was nothing going on.”

“And until a few weeks ago that was the truth. We had been entirely platonic in virtually every sense of the word. And yet.” He scanned the wall of bottles contemplatively. “People change. Relationships change. And I find myself in unfamiliar territory.”

“And you want to talk to me?”

“You, out of all the people in my acquaintance, have the most positive experience with romantic relationships. My sponsor hasn’t had a stable partner since I’ve known him. Bruce has more in common with insects then people. Detective Bell is rather circumspect but the only paramour of his I am aware of tried to frame him for murder. You go home every night at what is, for a police captain, a decent if not early hour. You take time off for birthdays and anniversaries. Your wedding ring is dull with wear, you obviously don’t even take it off to clean it. If I’m going to ask for advice I want to do it from an expert.”

Gregson seemed to mull that over. “I suppose talking with Sherlock Holmes about his private life is a unique experience. What do you want to know?”

Sherlock considered the possible ways of phrasing his concerns. All he could come up with was, “How?”

Gregson shook his head a little, smiling. “You aren’t telling me you’ve never been in a relationship before. That blonde woman, Moriarty. You and her-”

“Aside from the fact Watson would come at me with my own single stick if I ever presumed to compare the two, my relationship with Irene Adler was quite different then the one I have with Joan Watson.” The bartender came by and glared at Sherlock, as if daring him to order water. “Cranberry and Sprite,” he said, just to be difficult. Once it was in front of him he glanced back at the Captain. “Her idea. Supposed to make me more comfortable in social settings where drinking is expected.”

Gregson just smirked, gesturing the bar tender for another round of his own.

The silence stretched before Sherlock continued his thought. “Irene. She gave me a-a blind spot. At the time I said I enjoyed it. Something I couldn’t predict. Now I rather suspect it was my way of coping with any signs I may have noticed that her entire persona was a lie. Our relationship was brief and intense and never pretended to be anything but physical and definitely not platonic.”

“None of that sounds much like you and Ms. Watson.”

“No.” Sherlock sipped his drink, wincing at the sweetness. “She doesn’t make me blind. Quite the opposite. She gives me a clarity I’ve rarely experienced. I still, occasionally, have trouble predicting her. But there is no subterfuge. No persona.” Sherlock scrubbed his hands over his face. “I’m good with rational. With deduction. I am not good with feelings. At some point I believe my knack with the first will override the second enough to cause her to leave. That is an eventuality I would like to prevent.”

“Have you tried, I don’t know, telling her that?”

“Our relationship upgrade is very new. We’ve agreed overanalyzing it would be the best way to destroy it.”

“So you came to me to overanalyze it?”

Sherlock bobbed his head, unable to deny it. “I am also not good at leaving things alone. As you well know.”

Gregson blew out a breath. “Look. Just because my marriage works doesn’t mean I’m a font of good advice.”

“I understand that but I. . . I’ve come to hold you in some esteem. Other then Watson you likely know me the best, in some respects. And you’ve seen us together from the beginning. Surely there’s something you’d like to tell me.” He tilted his glass this way and that. “Consider it a free pass to tell me what you think of me.”

Gregson drained his drink with a hiss. “You,” he began. “Are brilliant. I don’t know how your brain works. Probably never will. Sometimes I talk to you and I feel like you’re three sentences ahead in the conversation, waiting for the rest of us to catch up. Love doesn’t work that way. And we are talking love here, right?” Sherlock gave a reluctant nod, frowning. 

Gregson looked like he’d just passed a test. “Love is give and take. It’s listening when she’s pissed and remembering not to do that again. It’s trying to see it from the other person’s point of view. It’s nothing you can’t do. You’re not a bad guy, Holmes. If you were you’d be on Moriarty’s team, not ours. You need to just shut up and listen and you’ll do fine.” Now Gregson was giving him a canny look he often gave suspects. Sherlock was reminded that the man was an excellent investigator in his own right. He saw far more then he gave himself credit for. “But you knew all that,” Gregson was saying. “Even if you didn’t know how to say it. So, what are you really asking me?”

Sometimes Sherlock thought none of his secrets were safe anymore. He deeply wished he could have a real drink. “She moved into my home. She changed her career to mine. She stays up at all hours with me, reading files and solving cases. She - a few weeks ago, during the bombing case, I became honestly concerned she was picking up some of my nervous tics. If love is give and take I am failing at the give part rather spectacularly.”

“You think your relationship is uneven. That you’re. . . taking her over, somehow.”

“She is a giving person. It’s her nature. And I- am not. It is not my nature.”

Gregson studied him a moment, then sighed deeply. “Look. When I knew you in London you were an insufferable prick. I don’t know how you didn’t get punched on a daily basis. At the time I chalked it up to you being young, from money and smarter then everyone in the room. Any one of those things could make someone an ass. All three together. . .” He shrugged. “You solved crimes. That was what mattered. When you got in touch with me here you were a bit more subdued. Still insufferable but less of a prick. At that point I knew about the drugs and the recovery. Figured sobering up had taken the edge off. Then, you introduce me to your valet. And the next thing I know you’re actually giving a shit about people. Choosing words carefully. Explaining things like I’m not a total idiot. You even manage to sneak a compliment in once in a while. You don’t have to be, well, _you_ to figure out where that’s coming from.”

“You think Watson makes me a better person.”

“I think you changed. Maybe you did it for her. Maybe you did it for you. But post-Joan Sherlock is a hell of a lot nicer to be around then pre-Joan Sherlock.”

Sherlock stared at the cranberry mocktail in front of him, now pink and watered down from melted ice. He supposed it was as good a physical example of what the Captain was saying as anything. He never would have bothered trying to “fit in” before her. “Thank you, Captain. You’ve given me a great deal to think about.”

“No problem. Now, I better get home. Give my wife a kiss and tell her I’m a love guru now.” He tossed some bills on the bar. “Good luck.” Sherlock nodded, still contemplating his drink. 

Gregson shrugged his coat on. “Oh, and Sherlock? I consider you a friend, too.” He patted his arm on the way past.

Sherlock’s phone buzzed just as he left the bar. Watson.

_Are you ok? It’s been a few hours, thought I’d check in._

For a moment he contemplated telling her the whole truth. _Just leaving a pub where Captain Gregson and I were discussing relationships and feelings._ She’d think he was kidnapped again. Probably send out the National Guard.

_Cnslt w/Cptn G Finished. CUS_

_Ok. I’m heading to bed. Think I’m coming down with something._

_Chinese herbs required?_

_I’ll see how I’m feeling tomorrow. Be safe. Goodnight._

***

The brownstone was quiet when he got there, but she’d left the porch and foyer lights on for him. He clicked them off on his way upstairs. He paused at Watson’s door, peeking in to see if she was really asleep.

She was. Curled with her back to the door in a tangle of sheet and duvet. Without conscious thought he crept into the room and took a seat in “his” chair, watching her. 

He had had nightmares as long as he could remember. The product of his ever active mind, he presumed. Sometimes they were quite vivid. Others were vague and ethereal, the details gone as soon as he awoke. Around the time of Rhys and the DEA agent they had started featuring Watson rather regularly. Her in danger. Hurt. Killed. Once she had officially become his partner and after the Moriarty incident they have become more frequent.

God, Rhys had been almost a year ago. Had this thing between them been growing that long? He could chalk it up to her being his friend, but no one else he considered a friend ever showed up in his dreams. Just her. And when he slept next to her they eased. He still had them, of course. But when he woke she was there, warm and alive and sleeping. And he could talk himself back to sleep, because he knew she was safe.  
 He rubbed his eyes. The Woman had talked to him about trust. Trying to convince him to run away with her, she’d told him he had to trust someone. And the first words out of his mouth had been about Watson. He’d known then. Not that Irene was Moriarty, although he’d strongly suspected they were far more then captor and pawn. But that he wouldn’t go with her. That whatever they’d had was through. When the love of one’s life asked one to trust her another woman’s name should not be on one’s lips. So, yes, it almost certainly had been going on a long time.

Watson stirred. “Sherlock? Is something wrong?”

He moved to crouch by the bed, speaking softly. “No. It’s fine. I just wanted to let you know I was home safe.”

“Mmm. How did the consult go? You figure it out?”

He smiled a little. “Actually Captain Gregson had it worked out quite well. I was just a sounding board.”

She gave a sleepy smile, nuzzling her pillow. “So he can function without you?”

“On occasion, yes.” He touched her forehead and found it warm. “Get some sleep. If you are coming down with something I’m told rest is quite good for you.”

“You staying?” she mumbled, half asleep.

“Not tonight. I’ll only keep you up.” He stroked her hair back from her face until he was sure she was out.

***

Watson’s cold turned out to be quite mild. Three nights later Sherlock found himself antsy and at loose ends. When Watson picked up the stack of takeout menus for dinner he spoke.

“Why don’t we go out tonight?”

She turned slowly to look at him. “Out?”

“For dinner,” he clarified, standing. “And perhaps something afterwards. A movie. Is there anything out that isn’t a romantic comedy or a thriller in which I will deduce the perpetrator within the first fifteen minutes?”

Watson continued to stare at him. “You want to go to dinner and a movie?”

He rummaged through the paper. “Not in the mood for the cinema? It’s a bit late to get theater tickets. Another activity? Bowling. You look like a bowler.”

“Is this- Are you asking me on a date?” He froze, mind going uncharacteristically blank. She started to smile. “You _are_ asking me on a date. Is that what we’re doing now? We’re going on a date?”

He dropped the papers he was holding. “It was just an idle fancy. If you’d prefer to just order-”

“Nononono.” She came over to him and put her hand on his chest briefly. “I’d love to go out. Were you serious about the movie? There’s an update of a Shakespeare play out.” She took the paper from him, flipping through to the entertainment section. “I’m sure you’ve seen them all but-”

“I’m always willing to watch a new bastardization of the Bard,” he said quietly, watching her.

She gave him a smile, the wide one that light up her whole face. The same one he’d seen when he told her about the bees. “Let me change. There’s an Italian place near the theater-?”

He nodded. “Fine, fine. A carb load will simply make it easier to sleep through the film.”

The smile turned indulgent and she hurried upstairs to change. Sherlock went and stood by the door with her coat, waiting for her. He would almost certainly talk through most of the movie, nitpicking the flaws. Perhaps if it was bad enough she’d join in. They would never be one of those conventional couples, going out on regular dates, holding hands across an intimate table for two. But perhaps dipping his toe into the pool of normalcy would show her he was serious. Committed to their relationship. Whatever it was.

There was a Van Gogh exhibit coming to town next month. Maybe he’d take her. They could people watch, theorize who was planning an art heist. Possibly plan one themselves as a thought exercise.

A man could only be expected to change so much.


End file.
